


Tough Guy

by trulymadlylarry



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Kinda comfort sex???, M/M, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:23:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7585144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trulymadlylarry/pseuds/trulymadlylarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey comes home with a black eye, and Ian only knows one way to make him feel better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tough Guy

Even the simple scent of steaming hot coffee makes Ian feel freshly energized. He picks up the pot and grabs a mug from the top cupboard. It's his favorite one, with a colorful rainbow on the side. He nearly fills it to the top and adds a dash of milk and sugar for good measure, swirling it around with a metal spoon. He leans against the counter and takes a slow, steady sip. The warmth and taste of the coffee soothes his scratchy throat.

    The Milkovich house seems oddly quiet, he thinks. Svetlana is at a doctor's appointment with Yevgeny after he woke up with a rash. Mandy's out with Kenyatta somewhere. Mickey's brothers have fucked off to The Alibi Room to get drunk and probably crack some skulls. And Mickey— well, he had some _business_ to take care of.

    Ian had long since stopped asking Mickey about his thug activities. He'd rather stay ignorant and pretend he has some white-collared job in a safe little cubicle. He doesn't like to imagine the dangerous situations Mickey puts himself in on a daily basis. If something bad happened to him, Ian doesn't know how he'd handle it.

    He stumbles over to the living room and sits on the couch, sipping his coffee in silence. It feels too quiet. He's become accustomed to hearing Svetlana's loud Russian voice, Yevgeny crying, and Kenyatta and Mandy shouting at each other at the top of their lungs.

    Sighing, Ian grabs the nearby remote and turns on the television. The buttons feel sticky beneath his fingertips. He plops up his feet on the coffee table, disregarding the overflowing ashtray and empty beer bottles. He knows he should probably go help Fiona and Lip with the kids, but frankly, he doesn't want to. After working so much, he just needs a day to unwind.

    Suddenly, the front door swings open. Ian looks over to see Mickey walking inside with a cut on his lip and blood dripping down his chin. His hand is pressed to his left eye. In between the slots of his fingers, Ian can see that his skin is tinted black and blue.

    "Shit, Mickey!" Ian says loudly, standing up from the couch. "What the fuck happened?"

    Mickey drops his hand. His eye is swollen and dark, slightly green from bruising. "Don't worry. The other guy looks even worse."

    Ian frowns. "Who did this?"

    "Some guy from the Rub n' Tug. Gave one of the girls counterfeit cash," he says dismissively, as if it was nothing.

    Ian slumps his shoulders. "Alright, go lay down. I'll bring you some ice."

    Mickey sighs before stumbling into their bedroom, using his hands for guidance. Ian hears the mattress springs squeak as he retreats to the kitchen to fetch a bag of ice. He opens the freezer and grabs a big handful, stuffing it in a plastic zip bag.

    Ian walks into their room and perches at the side of the bed. Mickey's lying down and staring up at the ceiling with squinted eyes, ankles crossed. He presses the cold ice to Mickey's bruised eye. His gaze shifts to him for a brief second.

    "Thanks," he murmurs.

    "No problem, tough guy."

    Mickey grumbles incoherently, probably something about Ian being an idiot. But there's a soft smile on his face, barely noticeable, tugging on the corners of his chapped lips. His dark hair is combed back neatly, as if he's a respectable member of society. He's wearing a black button-up top and some dark jeans. He kicks off his shoes, sending them tumbling off the edge of the mattress.

"Do you need anything?" Ian asks softly.

Mickey raises his eyebrows. "I don't need a fucking caretaker."

"I know," Ian says quickly because he knows it's true. Mickey doesn't need anyone to take care of him. He's been on his own his entire life. Sure, he had his siblings and Terry whenever he wasn't in jail, but he prefers to do things alone. He likes to isolate himself.

A small fraction of silence passes between them. Using his free hand, Mickey grabs a half-empty carton of cigarettes from the bedside table and sticks one between his lips. He lights the tip with a translucent lighter. He takes a sharp inhale before letting go, releasing a puff of smoke between his red, bloody lips.

"You look like shit," Ian muses, pressing down on the ice pack.

Mickey gives him a sharp glare (with one eye). "Thanks, Ian. I love it when you insult me. It's a huge turn on," he says sarcastically.

Ian smirks and takes the cigarette from his fingers, taking a slow drag. "You wanna fuck? It might distract you from... everything." He motions around cluelessly.

Mickey laughs dryly. "You wanna bang when I have a black eye and a bloody lip?"

"Why not?"

Mickey considers it for a moment. "Okay, fine. But I'm too sore to do anything."

Ian snickers and puts the cigarette in a nearby ashtray. He instantly unbuttons Mickey's jeans, much to his surprise. He tugs them down his thighs and off his ankles, letting them fall to the floor. Mickey stares at him wordlessly with the ice still pressed to his left eye. Arousal pools in Ian's stomach when he sees the slight (yet noticeable) bulge in Mickey's boxers.

Without saying anything, Mickey drops the ice pack and takes off his shirt urgently. The air feels hot and humid around them, despite being the middle of February. Ian spreads Mickey's legs and sits between them, palming him through his boxers. Mickey throws his head back against the headboard and moans lowly, clutching the sheets with clenched fists. The "FUCK" tattoo on his right hand bumps up and down with his knuckles.

"Suck me off, Gallagher," Mickey growls impatiently.

Mickey yanks his boxers down to his knees, and Ian takes them off the rest of the way, leaving him completely naked. He grips Mickey's hardening erection with his fist and gives it a few slow pumps, bringing him to full hardness. Before he can lower his lips, Mickey grabs a fistfull of his ginger hair and pushes him down, forcing him to spread his lips and take him into his mouth. He makes a noise of surprise in the back of his throat.

He swirls his tongue slowly, holding open his jaw until he starts to feel sore. Mickey's cock hits the back of his throat, but he doesn't gag. His eyes water in protest, but he keeps going, wanting to give his boyfriend the pleasure he deserves. Mickey's hands settle on his hair as he moves his head up and down and takes his length deeper.

Mickey glances down and sees Ian rubbing his crotch with one of his hands, giving himself some relief.

He licks his lips. "Get on with it already."

Ian slowly moves his mouth up his length, swirling his tongue around the tip. When he releases him from his mouth, his lips are wet and covered in spit. "Get on with what?"

"Fucking me, you idiot," Mickey says, as if it was obvious. He grabs the lube from their bedside drawer and tosses it at Ian's face. He catches it, smiling wide.

"If that would've hit my face, we could've had matching black eyes," Ian says jokingly. "That would've been so romantic."

Mickey scoffs. "Are you gonna fuck me or not?"

Ian flushes and takes off his shirt. Mickey can't help but stare at the pale canvas of his chest, his sculpted muscles and faint chest hair. His v-line carves out his perfect hipbones. Hurriedly, Ian shimmies out of his skinny jeans, keeping only his boxers on. Mickey smirks at the sight of his half-hard cock concealed in his blue striped underwear

"Flip over," Ian instructs.

Mickey grunts and turns onto his stomach. Before he can blink, he feels Ian's large hands kneading into his asscheeks. He's always been infatuated with Mickey's butt, for obvious reasons. He spreads his cheeks and rubs his thumb over his pink hole. Before Mickey can yell at him for teasing, he squirts some lube onto his fingers.

He presses his index finger against his entrance, lightly at first. Then he pushes his finger in all the way up to his knuckle. Mickey groans and rocks back against it, wanting more. More, more, more. Ian quickly adds another finger with ease and slides it along the first. He spreads them outward to scissor him open. Mickey moans at the stretch and the pressure against his prostate.

"Hurry up, Gallagher. I'm not getting any younger," says Mickey in his usual, snarky tone.

Ian smiles and smacks his ass teasingly. He pushes down his boxers just enough to pull out his cock. He fetches a condom from the side table and rolls it over his length, leaving some slack at the tip. He pumps some extra lube over his dick as an extra precaution.

He lines up with Mickey's stretch hole and sinks inside, sliding in without any restraint. His boyfriend's body pulses around him. He feels tight and slick and warm and familiar. Micky groans at the sudden stretch and fists the bed sheets.

"Mick," Ian huffs, looming over his back. He presses a light kiss to his shoulder blade. Mickey always refrains from kissing during sex, says it's too lovey-dovey, but this time he doesn't complain.

Feeling a sudden burst of energy, Ian starts thrusting into him at a rapid pace, making the mattress bounce beneath them. Mickey's temple is pressed against one of his pillows, his eyes clenched shut, lips huffing and puffing. His eyebrows are furrowed, as if he's trying to concentrate on the short bursts of pleasure every time Ian hits his sweet spot. Despite being the toughest guy in the southside of Chicago, he's oddly compliant during sex. Perhaps _soft_ is the best word to describe it.

"Wait," Mickey says abruptly.

Ian stops. "Yeah?"

"Just— wait," Mickey groans.

Ian slips out immediately, in fear of hurting him. But to his surprise, Mickey doesn't climb out of bed and scurry away. Instead, he gets up on his hands and knees, thighs quivering slightly. His head hangs low, staring at the pillows beneath him.

"Fuck me," he orders.

Ian enters him again, this time faster. He wastes no time hammering his hips, ripping moans out of Mickey at the speed of light. He meets his thrusts halfway and pushes back against him. Ian grabs his hips for support, driving into his tight heat like his life depends on it.

Ian's nails dig into Mickey's waist, adding to the sharp pain, but he likes it. He likes feeling a bit on edge during sex. He likes the burning stretch and the feeling of teeth scraping against his skin. He never knew these things about himself until he met Ian.

"Come," Ian huffs out, snaking his arm around to grip Mickey's cock.

It only takes three more deep thrusts before Mickey comes in Ian's hand, shuddering. His arms weaken from exhaustion, so he collapses on the bed to his forearms. His body clenches around Ian's cock. He fucks him through his orgasm, pounding into him relentlessly.

Moments later, Ian comes inside of him, shooting his load into the condom with Mickey's name falling from his abused lips. He takes a few long seconds to recollect himself. He blinks a couple times to clear his vision, and when he looks up, he sees Mickey's body flat against the mattress, breathing heavily.

"You okay?" Ian asks worriedly, pulling out. He takes off the condom and tosses it in the bin next to the bed.

Mickey laughs and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. His swollen eye looks even darker than it did before. "You wore me out, firecrotch."

Ian chuckles and pulls Mickey onto his chest, letting him use his shoulder as a makeshift pillow. Remarkably, he doesn't move away. Ian cards his fingers through his sweaty hair and kisses his forehead, making him tense up.

"What's gotten into you?" Mickey accuses. His skin feels hot and flushed.

"Nothing. I'm just glad you're okay," Ian says quietly. A gentle smile settles on his lips.

"It's just a black eye."

"It's more than that. You're always putting yourself in dangerous situations, Mick. What if you don't come home one day? What if—"

"Hey, shut up," Mickey interrupts, thumping the side of Ian's head. "Don't be an idiot. I'll always come back to you."

Ian smiles and kisses his lips, tasting the metallic flavor of dried blood where he was punched. He brushes some stray hairs out of Mickey's blue eyes. They remind him of the ocean: calming and gentle, yet sometimes unpredictable. Staring into his pretty irises, Ian feels like a sailor lost at sea.

"I love you, tough guy."

"I love you too, dickbreath."


End file.
